Maybe that’s not the best way to begin a post, and perhaps it is a forewarning of what is to come more than anything else, but there is no other way to say it. Apparently the first part of discovering one self is acceptance. So I’m accepting what I am and what I am is drunk.
Cheers to acceptance.
To answer any questions, yes, I am drinking alone and yes, this is the first and most likely last time I am doing as such. Hemmingway apparently said that it helps calm the soul but then again he wrote The Old Man and the Sea. When he said it, he was probably so zonked out of his brains that it was he was trying to appease his soon-to-be suicidal mind. After The Old Man and the Sea, I think he deserves as much.
Hey, don’t get me wrong. I am nothing but calm. But at the same time, I feel like I have fire in my lungs. Here’s a blank page, and look at the firestorm I’m spitting already. Quoting Hemmingway. Accepting myself. It’s a riot of accomplishment.
Yet due to a growing inarticulateness and a lack of creative fervor even when powered by poisoned-artistic rocket fuel, I do realize that most of this writing is but a wet match. The same holds true for anything else I write. There is a structure, the wood, a fuel of words, the sulphur/phosphorus wick, but in the end there is only a boy who instead of seeing the potential fire he can start, asks why would anyone create such a small lollipop.
Those are but some of the memories flooding a hazed cerebral highway. To be frank, they are not expected. Alcohol is supposed to make people forget. So is old age. Funny how a person both grows old and increases alcohol consumption at the same time. Part of growing up, I guess.
Cheers to growing up.
Now I am not promoting nor condoning such behaviour. Nor am I attempting to glamorize this current point of inebriation. Instead, I am using it as a means for writing, albeit in a certainly guttural fashion, because I feel I need to write just as others need to sing. Like most of them, I don’t have anything worthy to say. And like them, I’m supposed to be on a coke-binge to do it right. Thanks Hendrix, thanks Elvis, and thank you to the rest who taught me to think as much.
But don’t think that my one time experimenting with alcohol is a manifestation of weakened inhibition. While you’re at it, don’t believe any of this bologna that drunken actions are sober thoughts. Here now, at the point of inebriation that I have considered taking a broom as a girlfriend and I am convinced that my spelling is better drunk, I know otherwise. Drunken actions aren’t sober thoughts. Drunken actions are sober aspirations. Who doesn’t want to spell well? Who wouldn’t want to have a broom as a girlfriend? At least in the case of latter, I’d know that she’d clean up well.
While comments of object sexuality and paraphilia can be brushed aside, I do realize that alcohol consumption turns even the most iconic of gentlemen into boozing bloodhounds. But only by being a boozing bloodhound does being a gentleman have any worth. Without bloodhounds, gentlemen would have nothing to compare to besides themselves – and indeed, arguments about monocle sizes and cigar caches are neither interesting nor exciting.
Satisfying as my obscure string of conscious has been, the question is still unanswered: why drink to write. I mean don’t I realize it’s a poison? Don’t I understand that it will lead to more outwards of depression than its ephemeral stimulation can provide? Don’t I know that I need all the brain cells I can muster?
Probably. Or at least, I think that’s what my parents would want me to say. If they are reading this, well, shit.
But before I fully answer, realize that even with the cognitive functions that I have when sober, I have a hard enough time putting paragraphs together. And now when drunk, I have turned sentence after sentence after sentence searching for something in this word vomit to inspire me, only to instead find that this post is a drunken rant, that I have to actually vomit and that partially digested ravioli looks a lot like what someone would think it looks like: Sarah Jessica Parker.
The way I see it, right now, as Brendan Behan once said: I’m a drinker with writing problems.
That is why the true reason why I have taken to the madness of the bottle is because my reality becomes hazed, if only for a few seconds. I don’t have to feel. I am not sad. I am not happy. I am myself: a temporary drunk. And I’m okay with that.
Cheers to being okay.
In the end, let me dissuade any rumors. People don’t drink to become alcoholics. Alcoholics drink to become people. They can’t stand reality and reality can’t stand them. That’s why the bottle isn’t for the drink. The drink is a means to an end. The bottle is a telescope. It is meant for self-discovery. It is a way to find where one truly fits in.
That’s what everyone wants anyways. To belong. Somewhere. Anywhere. It is why we have families. It is why we love. It is why we have expectations for each other and ourselves. It is why I write. It is why you read. It is why anything and everything happens.
I guess, then, it is also why I drink.
Now me drinking alone may suggest an impending alcoholism to some more than any sense of belonging it could provide, but I prefer a different interpretation. Consider that thousands of people who have drunk alone, and that now I have joined their ranks. In a way, I am part of their history, and they are part of mine. We are brothers, sisters, and cousins. We are united under the banner of circumstances. Some drink alone out of spite. Others from loneliness. On the other hand, I just drink for myself.
Do I actually believe that? No, of course not. But I do need something to justify my current actions. I could pin it on some inner depression. I could relate it to a realization of insignificance. I could even say I did it for future inspiration. But I won’t. I’ll say I did it because a beer makes two people buddies, two beers makes them brothers, and when you’re alone, three beers makes a blog post.
Sure, this is probably stretching down the alley of pseudo science and contemporary fallacies. But flawed logic works best for flawed people, and most of the time, I can only see flaws in other people. It is only when I drop my judging sobriety with the ruse of cockeyed dizziness that I become less shallow, more manly, and become friends with complete strangers. In truth, it is the only time I act as a human should: lovingly.
Cheers to love.
I consider it ending on a high note because I know in the morning, there will be a low.